


All Blood Runs South

by DragonsInDorne



Series: Ethics and Soul-searching in the New World [1]
Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gore, Guilt, Hunting, Murder, Rosalie's secret hate-on for Carlisle, Twilight Spitefic, Vampires, blood-drinking, impusle and instinct being problematic, newborn rampages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15920307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsInDorne/pseuds/DragonsInDorne
Summary: Instinct makes for ugly monsters.





	All Blood Runs South

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place within a year of Emmett becoming a vampire, which I think might be two years after Rosalie is turned? (canon? what canon?) I also take liberties with the fact that Rosalie mentions never killing humans for blood, and no one ever mentions Emmett killing people under the influence. See end notes for Warnings.

Rosalie lifted her face to the wind, her hindbrain coming awake to the smell of spilled blood like fine whiskey. She was too lost in the sudden daydream of it, sliding down her dry, forever parched throat, to realize what it was, what it meant, what it meant for both her and Emmett.

Emmett.

  
Emmett, who wasn’t standing next to her anymore.

  
_Shitfuck_! Rosalie snarled mentally, then bolted along the path he’d carved in the underbrush, scraping dirt and smacking into trees when the bloodlust had taken both his good sense and his ability to turn sharp corners. Rosalie pushed and pushed her speed, desperate to catch up, trying to hold her breath and sprint at the same time despite the psychological urge to breathe _faster_ to carry more oxygen to her un-beating heart. Her aborted pants told her where Emmett had turned when the combination of her speed and fewer scrape marks failed her, and of course, she could _smell the blood_.

  
Rosalie tried not to. If she could focus on Emmett, on panic, on how this would utterly devastate him, she could keep her own head.

  
She skidded onto a thin paved road to the sight of a smoking car half in the roadside ditch, Emmett at the driver’s door with the poor man half hauled out through the broken window. Rosalie caught the barest sound of a struggling heart, the reflexive twitches of the man’s arms, the sound of Emmett drinking his blood so fast she could hear the sucking, slurping noises of it as clearly as if they were her own. Blood was splattered on the windshield from the passenger side where a woman slumped with her head tilted too far, blood dripping down her face and across her chest from – Rosalie wasn’t quite sure what. It wasn’t important.

  
Rosalie shouted, ignoring Emmett’s mindless warning snarl, and closed the distance between them to yank on his arm. Emmett flung it out with vicious, instinctive strength and clipped her in the chest, forcing her to stagger back and recover. And when she did, she grabbed him by a shoulder and by his hair, yanking him away from his prey.

  
Rosalie had never faced an enraged newborn before, had never actually had to fight another vampire and was thus entirely unprepared for the way he body-checked her like the unholy offspring of a linebacker and a bull. She protected her neck, blocking the next two strikes with mindless swipes of her own until Emmett caught her by her swinging, loose hair, forced her to spin, and went straight for her neck.

  
Rosalie screamed – Emmett’s venom was foreign and burning and immediately brought her back to the agony of transformation. She lost track of the seconds, then, barely registered the impact that smashed her down into the pavement so hard it cracked. He hadn’t ripped out her throat, just bit then let go when it was enough to still her, and it took precious wasted seconds of Rosalie fighting the pain and pawing at her own neck to remember what she should doing, why she needed to get up.

  
She did. She forced herself to her feet, dizzy with the burn of the pain. The air was so sweet, promising that if she could only get some blood, her throat would feel better, the burning bite would fade away. There was blood right there, painted on the windshield, across their throats and faces and clothes, sprayed across Emmett’s cheek and front where he’d ripped at his first victim’s neck and gotten caught by the arterial spray. He was on the woman, now, the car between them. His victim had been dead when Rosalie arrived, her death instantaneous but her body still full of fresh blood. Emmett hadn’t bothered to drag her free, just grabbed and practically ducked into the car to bite into the front of her throat, his gaze pinned on Rosalie through the ruined windshield.

  
“Emmett,” she rasped. She needed air to talk, and every inhale promised the siren song of fresh, fresh blood. There wasn’t any left, realistically. Emmett had dumped his male victim folded in half over the lip of the door, arms and scarf dangling, and now did the same to the woman, letting her slump against the windowsill of the car. Emmett himself rose to his full height in the ditch by the road, shoulders bunching and bloody teeth exposed. His rumbling growl carried through the air like a lion’s snarl, open-mouthed and audible. Instinct told Rosalie to run.

  
“Emmett.” She called again, a little stronger. She stepped forward, watching the tension in his face, in his legs. He stayed still and it encouraged her to continue forward, each footstep slow and deliberate, until she was down into the ditch with him. He’d turned to track her and now he positively loomed, and Rosalie was in striking distance and so, so stupid.

  
She stepped close. Within swiping reach, then closer, and now he could grab her and break her and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. Thinking she could in the first place had been laughable. In his position, Rosalie wouldn’t have allowed her meal to be stopped, either.

  
They were almost nose-to-nose, now, and she’d forgotten not to breathe. Her entire awareness was on his wild-red eyes, his continuous growling, the wafting smell of his shirt and his skin and his mouth, blood sliding down his chin. She saw it, she _wanted_ it, she ached with needing it.

  
Rosalie licked his chin.

  
His growl stopped. He stood still, but Rosalie had tasted it, that divine sensation and now she couldn’t stop. She licked and licked, following under his chin to his neck until he ducked his head and she went for his mouth, then, licking and licking and swallowing. Her throat sang with relief, her bite mark fading to distant fuzz and Rosalie grabbed Emmett and pulled him down, trying to steal his meal straight from his mouth.

  
Emmett responded. His motions were of a man trying to kiss back, clumsily and without thought, but Rosalie wasn’t kissing, Rosalie was _devouring_. She wanted it. He’d drank it and Rosalie’s hindbrain tried to negotiate the physics of drawing it back out of him. She bit, then, scraping without sinking in her teeth, sealed her mouth to his and sucked, swiped up his cheek to hunt for the splatters of still wet blood. She wasn’t kissing, and probably looked appropriately savage doing so. Emmett just grabbed and gripped and pulled on her body, falling into the motions of it, to the mindless lust of a meal and then a good fuck.

  
They ended up lying in the ditch without the conscious decision for it, scrabbling at each other’s clothes like pawing animals, Rosalie’s different hungers melding together. She ripped his shirt with her teeth trying to go for the bloodstains on it, and he just grabbed her collar and ripped down. She yanked and pushed until they twisted to let her on top, old fear making her uncomfortable beneath him even when she lacked the complex thought process to reason why. Emmett gripped her hips and ground her down on his erection and Rosalie moaned for it, listening to the echo of his voice.

  
It happened thoughtlessly, after that, chasing sensation and ripping fabric and dirt and grass showering onto them both, and Emmett growled and growled until she sank onto his cock. Then, his voice lifted on a quiet moan and Rosalie chest swelled with breathless laughter, at how funny it sounded, at how good he looked, at how great he felt.

  
It didn’t take them long, Rosalie gripping his shoulders and his arms and his pecks where she would have been able to feel the yield of skin and muscle on bone of a human man and missing it. Emmett gripped hard enough that it should have bruised, would have felt good if it had, and then his back was arching beneath her and Rosalie gripped his hips with her legs and lifted her face to the sky to savor the sweet joy of it, the incredible bubble of relief.

  
They stayed pressed together for long minutes, Rosalie’s face tucked under his chin and breathing in the echo of blood from his skin, Emmett’s hands tracing mindless patters up her thighs, across her hips and to her ribs. Rosalie felt slower, now, like her brain could finally afford to be empty, could echo and let her _not think_ and relax into the best approximate of dozing she had ever reached in this life.

Finally, after an unmeasured time, Rosalie shifted up to look down at Emmett, at the growing crease between his eyebrows and the rising awareness in his eyes, pupils focused. His mouth formed out a quiet _oh_ , and one of his hands slid up to press his palm against the new bite mark in the side of her neck, hidden under the fall of her hair and tingling uncomfortably with the sudden pressure. Rosalie watched the sharpness in Emmett’s eyes as he put coherent thought to the past few scrambled minutes, until he tilted his head back and she followed his gaze up.

  
One tire flattened and smoke spiraling up from the seams of the hood, and they both had the perfect vantage to peer into the cab of the car with how it tilted in the ditch straight towards them. The man was a slumped mass of clothing over the far door, but the way the woman had slid when Emmett let her go left her head tilted against the door and angled towards them both, the circular bloody imprint of Emmett’s teeth in the front of her throat vivid and accusing in the way the relaxed expression of her painless death was not.

  
Emmett made an animal sound of fear and refusal, bucking under her and hands scrabbling at her stomach in a mindless _get off_. Rosalie staggered up herself, regaining pants and balance along with coherent thought. _Oh god_ , she thought, taking in the two dead and the wrecked car and the distorted cracks in the concrete. _What have we done what have we done what_ -

  
“Rose,” Emmett choked out, then staggering and leaned on the car for support. It dipped suddenly under his added weight, making the whole thing rock forward into the ditch and jerk their two victims. Emmett yanked back, but the damage had been done and Rosalie would never, ever forget that image, nor would she forget how the woman wasn’t a woman but a teenager, curled hair and neat beige jacket and skin the color of light coffee, dead before they got here and yet Emmett had still mutilated her body.

  
_If he hadn’t, I would have_ , was the quiet, burning thought.

  
Because they were monsters. Because this is what they did, what they were born to do, how nature had designed their bodies to survive. No amount of good intentions, with the consumption of other food sources or Carlisle’s misguided attempts to save each of them, from death or loneliness or both, would change what they did, what the were meant to do.

  
And Rosalie stared at Emmett, wide eyed and dirty and covered in blood, and thought, _I did this to you. I made you this_.

  
Carlisle would have done him a kindness to refuse to turn him for her. Carlisle could have done the world a kindness, for once in his fucking life, if he’d left her to die in that alley like he should have.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains graphic depictions of a vampire killing a human, and mutilating the body of an already dead human. Contains mild sex scene.


End file.
